


Summer Haze

by carolinelamb



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Hannibal (TV) RPF, Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom
Genre: Cruising, M/M, Madancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-17 23:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19964920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinelamb/pseuds/carolinelamb
Summary: A year ago Mads has bought a little house in the suburbs but he doesn't live there.





	Summer Haze

**Author's Note:**

> Just a summer afternoon with Mads and Hugh.

* * *

The small house in the suburbs emanates a feeling of loss.

People once lived here — a family, maybe, Mads thinks. The house bears the marks of lives lived within these walls.

Someone once mowed the lawn — now an overgrown mess, suffocated by weeds.

Someone once rode the small bike, now rusty, the handles cobwebbed, leaning against the front steps.

Someone once painted the dilapidated fence, now the white colour is peeling off the wooden lattices. 

Every time he comes here, he wonders for a few minutes what the house is trying to tell him. It always seems to have waited for him, like a lonely, old person, full of stories of dead people, dead places.

Wrinkling his nose he notices some dog shit near the pathway. Somebody, probably one of the neighbour kids scrawled a red heart with chalk onto the concrete, wrote a name into it, but it must have been a while ago. Rain or the sun or both washed most of the letters away and only a "L" remained 

He eyes the lopsided blinds that lend the dusty living room windows a tired half-lidded look, a yellowed string, dangling in the soft breeze. A bunch of flyers are scattered on the steps.

Pulling down his baseball cap and adjusting his enormous ray bans, he sits down on the stairs to smoke a cigarette. 

A window must be open a few houses further away — he can hear the faint sound of a TV show signation song floating through the air.

Why are all these houses so quiet, he wonders, inhaling, then watching the smoke curl out of his mouth.

When he was a kid, all sorts of noise emanated from these town houses, parents yelling out of kitchen windows, children screaming in back yards, neighbors leaning on fences, drinking beers and idly chatting.

Maybe nowadays people have no time left for these things. Maybe they wake early, work late, eat hasty dinners at their desks, hurry to their gyms afterwards, finally dragging themselves home where they collapse on their couches just to repeat the same routines the next day. 

Well. He wouldn't know, would he.

His life is filled with excitement and beautiful people, and everybody around him is forever anxious to entertain him.

He snorts.

When he finishes his cig, a car pulls up on the other side. A woman in a business suit climbs out, carrying groceries. She doesn't see him, just goes into her house, slamming the door with her foot shut.

She is pretty though, he thinks automatically, nice legs.

He stretches a bit then turns towards the door of his house, looking for the keys in his cargo denims.

Mads has to wriggle the key for a few minutes to get the locked front door open, has to push it, as if the house resists him.

He doesn't close the door but leaves it slightly ajar.

Looking at the reddish cheap wooden surface of the door for a while, he feels finally excitement rise in him.

He bought this house a few months ago, when he moved here for the filming of Hannibal. 

First he thought, he'd use it once, maybe twice, then sell it immediately, move on to the next unexceptional indistinguishable town house. He was anxious, nervous about leaving tracks, about paparazzi hunting him down but nothing like that happened so he figured he might as well keep the house and save himself the hassle.

Or maybe he just likes it, this place filled with bereft sighs, the traces of modest, unassuming lives. 

Dust particles dance in the afternoon light like golden glitter, a particularly pretty sight he takes in for a few moments. 

The empty living room has only a broken arm chair in it. Like the other rooms, it is in an advanced state of decay. The arm chair was once covered in beige leather, but now the coils are sticking out of bits of crumbly foam and torn leather, the wooden frame visible underneath.

He checks the kitchen and the other rooms downstairs for signs of intruders, sleeping bags or discarded clothes of some kids or homeless people crashing here, as they're wont to do, but there is nothing.

He isn't as much checking the rooms then greeting the house he thinks.

Then he walks up the stairs slowly, treading lightly to not wake the ghosts lurking in the shadows.

Upstairs there are only two rooms besides the bathroom, a study of sorts with an Ikea shelf leaning against the window. Whoever lived here before, left several black folders behind. Mads once looked into them but they only contained a few recipe cut-outs from a magazine and instructions for a rice cooker. Carefully he closes the door behind him when he leaves the room.

He enters the bedroom, the tidiest room of all in this house, last. There is only a thin layer of dust on the wood floor. He pulls the heavy blue plastic cover off the mattress, the only thing in the bedroom and throws it into the corner. 

Mads bought the mattress and brought it here by himself, during a dark winter night, right after he had gotten the keys to the house. In hindsight a stupid thing to do, but he had been too paranoid to hire workers. Well, he nearly fell down the stairs lugging the damn thing up. 

It's still new, since he used it only a couple of times, but it's already stained. He smiles wryly at the stains, before sitting down.

He takes a bottle of beer out of his duffle bag and stretches out his long legs, looking out the small bedroom window. The setting afternoon sun hovers in the right upper corner, sending soft, buttery rays of light onto the floorboards. The sky has a strange, translucent, quality and he stares at it for a while.

His phone beeps.

"I'm near," the message just says.

Mads chuckles nervously.

He doesn't do this often enough to get used to it, but he likes the nervousness. Part of the game and all.

He sends the man a Google pin of his location.

"See you soon. Anything I should know?" the man texts back.

"Just do as I said," Mads replies.

He takes another swig out of his beer bottle. It's not very cold. Maybe he should bring a mini fridge here for the next time.

After unlacing his sneakers, he pulls them off his feet together with his socks which he stuffs into the shoes, then lies back and pushes his denims and his briefs down. His cock is half hard already, foreskin stretched tight around the red glans.

After finishing his beer, he takes off his t-shirt, wiping sweat off his nose and upper lip with it. 

For a while he just lies back, playing idly with his cock, legs spread, getting comfortable with his own nudity. He used depilatory cream on his butt and a douche to clean his hole. His hole feels nice and very smooth but he still lubes up a small dildo and inserts it just to see if he is really clean (with bottoming, shit sometimes just happens, but he still feels slightly squeamish about it), also it brings him into the right mood for what's to come.

When the dildo starts feeling good he forces himself to pull it out, despite wanting to fuck himself more and deeper with it, puts it on a folded towel and begins to lube himself up. 

Mads takes out the charcoal beanie out of his bag and after looking at it for a few moments pulls it over his face with a determined movement.

This is always the point where his nervousness and arousal catch up with him. He has somehow imprinted sexually on that stupid beanie. Now he only needs to hold it in his hands and he gets hard, his cock and his hole rightly associating it with pleasure.

He turns himself on his belly and lies there, his legs spread as much as possible, showing off his hole.

After a few more minutes he hears a car pulling up. From outside he can hear two male voices, then the car driving off again. 

As the man is slowly ascending the creaky stairs he reaches back, pulling his cheeks apart.

The man stops in front of the door. (Maybe he is new to this and needs to gather his courage.)

Impatiently Mads shifts, the rough fabric of the mattress rubs against his nipples, sending little jolts of pleasure to his hole and his cock.

Finally the door creaks open.

Mads closes his eyes, listening to the stranger entering the room.

The mattress dips behind him, as the stranger puts a knee between his legs, then a warm hand caresses his thigh.

Mads can hear the man breath, then chuckle softly while touching him.

The hand continues to slowly knead his buttocks. A thumb grazes his hole, and Mads lifts his hips up, in an unmistakable invitation. 

"Please," he wants to say, but he bites his lips, trying to be quiet.

The man behind him laughs softly, amused by Mads' eagerness.

The laugh sounds familiar, although the sound is muffled, almost as if the man is wearing a mask too.

His own bodily reaction shocks him: his hole clenches, his hips lift even higher, his legs spread wider, so eager now for fat, hard cock.

For a while Mads can't hear anything, but the harsh breathing of the man kneeling behind him, who is focussing on stroking his hole, then slipping two fingers in and out, fucking him slowly, tortuously while pressing lightly — much too lightly — against his sweet spot. 

Mads pushes his ass back, wordlessly pleading.

"You're dripping, you slut," the man comments. Something about how this man intones his sentence sets off tiny alarm bells in Mads' brain but at the same time, the possibility excites him more. 

_What if it's someone I know?_

He feels strangely lightheaded. It's as if his usual care and paranoia have left him completely. Instead his entire body begs to just be fucked by whoever this is. 

As if the man behind him read his thoughts, Mads can finally hear his pants being unzipped. A moment later something solid and hot and hard presses against his cleft. 

Mads curses internally. He might come the moment the man slides it in, he is so aroused and hard by now.

The stranger though takes his time, rubbing the shaft of his hard dick slowly against Mads' hole for a few minutes. Several times he presses the tip against the rim, as if he is about to push inside but whenever Mads pushes back, expecting this dick to slide in and fucking take him, he withdraws and continues the teasing.

"Beg," the man says, his voice so soft, Mads has to strain to hear him. "Be polite."

Mads never speaks. It's one of his most important rules. He thinks, his voice is too recognisable and he doesn't want to take any risks. 

It was agreed by message, there would be no talking, he thinks with rising anger. The guy had definitely agreed to this. Seething that his instructions are being ignored he briefly considers breaking this thing off.

Then the man pushes his fingers in again, and they move so cleverly, as if they have him mapped out entirely and Mads can only bite his lips and arch his back, his skin heating up with lust.

"Say pretty please," the man whispers smugly, a bit louder now, and Mads pricks his ears, straining to identify that weird familiar edge in it.

Then this delicious dick presses against his hole again, the hard, blunt tip entering him. Mads reaches back now and squeezes his ass cheeks, so they massage the cock between them. Excess lube makes a faint squelching noise.

"Fuck," the man says, his voice hoarse and strained.

Mads grins underneath his hood. Not so smug now, he thinks.

He gets onto his knees and begins to move rhythmically against the other.

The man behind him shuffles forward on his knees, then Mads feels the man towering over him, planting his hand beside his left shoulder.

"You bitch," the man growls, and suddenly his voice is very close to Mads ear. He can feel his hot breath through the beanie. He sounds like — 

(No.)

(It just can't be.)

And then, before he can even follow this train of his thoughts, the man's cock pushes in and he nearly screams with relief. He bites his fist through the wool of the beanie

The first thrusts are always a little painful, stretching his hole, but Mads just waits it out. He enjoys the initial pain, knowing what comes next. His body is used to this process, and before the stretch becomes really uncomfortable it starts feeling really good, really perfect, making him clench and shudder.

This guy knows what he's doing, he knows how to use this cock, how to use his fingers.

He firmly grabs Mads' hips, holding him in place while fucking into him with steady, slow thrusts, aimed to drag the shaft against his prostate, and every time Mads feels the glans press into his spot his mind whites out with pure pleasure.

Mads lifts himself up from the mattress and pushes back vigorously, fucking himself on that glorious hard rod. The man behind him groans, then increases his speed, fucks him harder.

Suddenly the man strokes his flank, then pushes him gently, prompting him to turn onto his back. Confused, Mads lets him. Usually, he prefers to get fucked face down into the mattress. No change of positions, no acrobatics. But the man sits down beside him, resting his back against the wall behind them. He begins to pull Mads on top of him. He understands he wants Mads to sit on his cock. Somewhat irritated about the interruption, Mads still obliges — he has never been as malleable as he is now but he's in a haze and only wants to come.

This cock is worth it.

At first slowly, then more insistently and faster the man begins to fuck upwards into Mads' hole with short, quick strokes that hit his prostate just right. Mads has never felt anything like that before - it feels so good, to be taken like this. Mads leans back into the other man's chest, moving faster and faster, chasing his high. The man begins stroking his flanks again, as if he's soothing a mare in heat.

Then he reaches forwards and rubs, pinches his nipples.

Under the beanie Mads' jaws fall open in a silent scream. 

Mads is squatting now, having more control over his movements, not satisfied to just be fucked passively but needing to feel this cock fill him up entirely, needing to be able to take it all in.

Lost to his pleasure he moves up and down even faster, slamming down onto the hard cock. Every time he feels the spongy head hit his prostate his eyes roll back in his head - he feels he's already cumming, been cumming the last minutes, just he can't come down from this, instead it's getting more and more intense with every thrust.

The man behind him grunts, then fucks into him even harder, pulling his nipples in time with his thrusts.

He has never wanted a cock more than this one. 

With a slight shock he notices he has begun to moan but it's too late, he can't stop now even if he tries - the humiliating, greedy sounds escape his throat if he wants to or not.

"Moaning like a whore," the man comments, twisting his nipples cruelly while sliding his cock deeply into him with a single thrust, then holds him down.

For a moment the room around him disappears, everything inside him goes wordless, he is shivering, almost uncontrollably, trying to catch his breath. 

Mads comes with a loud scream, shaking and shuddering.

His cum splatters his own chest and he can feel droplets soak the lower part of the beanie.

This is too intense, he decides, trying to form coherent thoughts in his dazed brain. He feels overwhelmed and strangely alive but also wary, like someone being introduced to a powerful drug and realising he could, would, get hooked on it.

After a moment the man pushes him off, so he lands onto his belly, his bum high in the air, his legs splayed out and bent. Instinctively he tries to crawl away, away from this infuriating man.

Mads hears a soft laugh and he withstands the impulse to pull off his beanie to look at the man, to better hear his voice.

Before Mads can change his humiliating position, the man has grabbed his hips and pulled him back, then fucks into him with one single, hard thrust, pushing exactly into his prostate and Mads arches his back, half in pain, half in surprise how eager he is still for him.

Then a hand strokes his thighs, grabs the soft flesh of his belly, another hand kneads one of his buttocks.

"Nice, I like my bottom whores soft and fat," the man comments, his voice a deep growl now, continuing to knead his flesh - the belly, then his chest, rubbing and grabbing handfuls of his flesh. 

Finally the hand settles on his neck and pushes him facedown into the mattress.

When the man slides into him again, Mads closes his eyes, trying to decide if he is feeling pleasure or pain. The man delivers a few slower thrusts, but then picks up speed. As he is nearing his orgasm he starts cursing and groaning softly under his breath.

He expects the man to come inside him, but instead he abruptly stops, panting harshly, then pulls out.

'Its over," Mads thinks, with a strange mix of relief and disappointment. 

His body craves more of this. Great, he is already addicted.

He can hear the man pulling the condom off.

Then a hot load of cum hits him on his back, on his thighs. The man turns him around in an urgent movement so Mads is lying on his back, and the man continues to spray him with his cum, thick drops splattering on his chest, then soak into his beanie.

Mads stretches out his tongue and licks, sucks at the wool to get more of the salty cum. 

The man pushes his still hard cock's head onto his nipples, toys with them, smears his cum all over Mads' chest, while he is lying on his back with his legs spread, exhausted and wrung out.

He is unable to move, can only listen as the man walks around in the room, getting dressed.

Unexpectedly the man returns and presses Mads masked face against his crotch.

"Just push the beanie up a little and clean me up" he says, "I won't look."

Mads' English isn't good enough to pinpoint accents, but he is pretty sure the man's accent sounds different than before, as if he switched accents or something.

He shrugs internally - maybe he's not the only one being paranoid about fucking other men, who knows?

Going against every instinct he does reach up with still shaking fingers and pushes up the beanie, then licks the softening cock pressed against his lips.

He won't get hard for a few hours but he can feel something inside him come to life, can feel himself clench up longingly.

Finally the man wipes his cock on Mads' beanie with a breathy laugh, pats his face, then leaves.

After what seems like an eternity, Mads finally pushes himself up onto his elbows. Methodically he wipes himself down with lemon-scented wipes, gets dressed and texts his driver to pick him up a few blocks from here.

* * *

He has to get back to the set the next day but hears upon his arrival that Hugh is away for a few days.

Caroline jokes about Mads being lovesick, and Aaron overhearing her leans into her jokes.

Mads joins in the general banter if only because he feels a little called out. 

When Hugh finally turns up three days later on set, everyone welcomes him back cheerfully.

Whenever everyone is at set, they dine together. Tonight Hugh suggests a new place, downtown. Mads has planned an early night, but finds himself immediately agreeing.

The evening turns out to be pleasant, albeit everybody is tired from a long day. Hetty pulls out her phone and shows Hugh a snake clip she found on YouTube, waving it into his face - knowing he has a phobia of snakes. He shrieks - half in zest of course, and over the top to play along, then scolds Hetty for being insensitive. Caroline texts a lot with a mysterious new beau, so ignores everyone during dinner, then abruptly leaves before dessert. Scott makes Hugh and Bryan laugh with one of his exaggerated anecdotes.

Mads congratulates himself again to have taken on this Hannibal gig. Money is good but it's even better to work with a team of professionals who can stand each other as people as well. And he always likes spending time with Hugh.

Hetty and Lara excuse themselves and leave early too — they both have to be at set at an ungodly hour. 

Mads stands up to go smoke a cigarette outside, before his car will arrive to take him back to his serviced apartment.

Hugh follows right after him, staying close to him, although he has given up smoking a long time ago.

Just as the door of the restaurant falls shut behind them, he grabs Mads' shoulder and suddenly his lips are very close to his ear. He can feel his breath on his skin — it's hot and — (something in Mads' brain begins to click.)

Hugh lets out a weird, little breathy laugh.

It's the laugh. He recognises that laugh. (No, Mads tells himself firmly.)

Mads blinks against the onset of recognition, against the dread filling him up.

He fumbles for his cigarettes in the breast pocket of his sweater, feeling hot and cold at the same time

"Next time," whispers Hugh, "I'm going to cum on your face and you'll lap it all up."

Mads whips around.

"What — what did you s—?"

But then Hugh's driver comes up towards them, and Hugh steps back, wearing that innocent schoolboy expression, gazing at him with his large, turquoise eyes. He wets his dark lips with the pink tip of his tongue like a cat. For a moment his mask of innocence gives way to a hungry and predatory expression.

He pats his shoulder again, then turns around and follows his driver into the night, who has begun walking towards the car parked on the other side of the road

Mads leans against the glass front of the restaurant, lighting his cigarette with shaking fingers. 

His phone beeps.


End file.
